


Hooked

by DeliberateMisspelling



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Law Enforcement, FBI Agent Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Police Officer Derek Hale, Undercover As Prostitute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 02:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeliberateMisspelling/pseuds/DeliberateMisspelling
Summary: Derek's never had a problem doing his job, but this situation is... less than ideal.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So Tumblr is the worst and if one person mentions they can't get past the read more, there's probably at least a few more. This is unbeta'ed, sorry. If you feel it needs additional tags, let me know. I deeply apologize for the title, but on the other hand, I'm super not sorry. Enjoy.

“Is there a problem, Hale?” The dispatcher’s voice comes through Derek’s earpiece with a crackle that makes him flinch.

“No,” he lies, staring out the windshield of his unmarked at the kid- prostitute- rent- mark? Mark shivering on the corner in ripped skinny jeans showcasing an ass Derek would like to bite and a grungy, skin tight tank top Derek can see the dip of his belly button through.  It is, like everything else about him, strangely appealing in a way that makes Derek deeply uncomfortable with himself.

There is definitely a problem. Derek is definitely not supposed to find the mark attractive. The mark isn’t supposed to _be_ attractive, full stop. He’s supposed to be a down on his luck waif with track marks on too-thin arms, maybe a busted lip or a black eye. This guy looks like he has a gym membership and maybe a modeling contract. It is strictly unfair.

“Move in, Hale,” Derek’s sergeant orders through the com. Derek sighs.

“10-4, approaching.”

He pulls across the intersection and rolls to stop, throwing the unmarked into park and sliding down the window. The guy’s got his leanly muscled arms crossed on the frame before the window’s even all the way down, grinning at Derek with a set of perfectly straight, even teeth. It raises a flag, certainly, but this isn’t the first college kid to subsidize an income. It’s just usually that college kids are usually savvy enough to use Craigslist or Backpage, not street corners.

“Evenin’” the guy drawls, “You lost? You’re too pretty to be out here on your own.”

Derek couldn’t agree more.

“So’re you. Get in,” Derek retorts instead. The guy’s grin stretches even further, and he slides into the heated passenger seat of the unmarked without protest. He sighs almost inaudibly, settling against the warm leather. Derek shifts in his seat, puts the car in gear and eases away from the curb.

“You got a place in mind? I don’t think the back will fit us both, but then again, I’m pretty flexible,” the guy observes, squinting into the dark of the rear seats.  

“What’s your name?” Derek ignores his question, already navigating back towards the station house. He’d like to get this frankly disturbing interaction over with as quickly as possible, but the guy doesn’t seem particularly interested in discussing his rates. Another flag pops up in the back of Derek’s head.

“Does it matter?” the guy rolls his eyes, “Whatever you want it to be.” 

“What’s your name?” Derek asks again, undeterred.

“Eleanor Roosevelt,” the guy snaps, crossing his arms over his chest, “You wanna tell me where we’re going?”

“My place,” Derek tells him, and it isn’t exactly a lie. Then again, if Derek can’t get this guy to name his price before they get back to the station, he’s going to have to let him go. Derek can’t exactly drive him around all night. Or fuck him in the backseat, unfortunately.

“You’re gonna take a street corner hooker back to your house?” Eleanor raises his eyebrows, “Dumb as you are pretty.”

“It’s a place,” Derek equivocates, “And it’s mine. I didn’t say it’s where I live.”  Eleanor’s eyes narrow.

“You a lawyer?” he demands, “Or a cop?”

“Nope,” Derek pauses at a stop sign, glances past the guy out the passenger window, “You wanna tell me if I need to hit an ATM?”

_Let the mark bring up the price_ has been drilled into his head for years, ever since he joined VICE, but Derek needs to get this moving.

“50 for a blowjob, although if that’s what you wanted, this’d be over by now. 200 to fuck me, 300 for bareback,” the guy throws out, like it’s no big deal if Derek wants to fuck him without a condom. Like he does that regularly. Derek winces, but makes to reach for his wallet while they sit at a red light.

The guy snaps two crisp hundreds out of Derek’s hand and they vanish. Derek sighs heavily, runs the red, and pulls into the stationhouse parking lot.

“You’re under arrest for solicitation. You have the right to remain silent-”

The guy starts laughing. Hard, wheezing with it and pounding on his knee with a closed fist.

“Oh my god, Diaz, tell me you’re hearing this,” he chokes, “Fuckin’ priceless.” There’s a familiar crackle further away than directly in Derek’s ear, and then a faint voice.

“Yeah, Stilinski, we hear it. Get out of the fuckin’ car and go back to your post,” a female voice orders as Eleanor’s laughter tapers off.

“On it,” he replies, squirming in Derek’s passenger seat to yank something out of his back pocket.

“I’m FBI, you fucking numpty,” Eleanor flips open what turns out to be a very real looking federal badge with a first name Derek couldn’t dream of pronouncing correctly on the first try, and the last name Stilinski.

“Why the hell are you doing a solicitation sting?” Derek demands, “This isn’t your jurisdiction.”

Stilinski rolls his eyes again, so hard his whole head moves with it.

“I’m not. We’ve been tracking a serial killer and we think he’s here in DC. He’s left a string of dead rent boys from Pensacola to Monterey. Maybe you’ve heard about it?”  Stilinski’s mouth purses sardonically, “Either way, you want to take me back to my corner?”

“Where’s your backup?” Derek asks as he turns the engine on again, “We weren’t followed.”

Stilinski snorts.

“Yes, we were. We’re, uh, better at this than you,” he shrugs, “Also, I’m wearing a GPS tracker and a wire. Don’t worry your pretty little head about me; I may be just this fuckers type, but I’m also armed.”

“Uh-huh,” Derek scoffs, pulling out of the station parking lot, “And the DC police weren’t informed about this because?”

“Because it’s not actually our obligation to tell the local LEOs our every move,” Stilinski mocks, although he sounds a bit irritated about it. “That’s not my call,” he offers, glancing at Derek from the corner of his eye.

“Uh-huh,” Derek says again, “So what is your name?”

“An unpronounceable mess of consonants,” Stilinski  tells him cheerfully, “But everybody calls me Stiles. And you are?”

Stiles sticks his hand out and Derek takes one off the wheel to shake.

“Derek Hale, DCPD.”

Stiles grins at him again as Derek parks illegally at the corner he picked Stiles up from.

“Well, Derek Hale, DCPD, this has been fun, but I’ve got to get back to freezing my ass off and looking like a life barren of opportunities has led me to selling my body on the street,” Stiles chuckles, flicking the door handle but not actually opening it.

“You could be better at that,” Derek points out, reaching over him to swing the door open, “Your teeth are too nice, you’re in too good shape, and even from a distance you don’t appear to have a drug problem.”

“Fake some track marks next time, maybe go on a cleanse beforehand, is that what you’re saying?” Stiles teases, flinging his absurd gazelle legs out of the car. The rest of his narrow hipped, slim waisted, broad shouldered body follows. Derek sighs a little.

“My card,” Stiles ducks back down before he shuts the door, a small rectangle of cardstock held out between two slim fingers, “Cell’s on the back.”

Derek blinks at him, and then reaches out of to take it.

“Thanks?” Derek offers, unsure why he’s being gifted this.

“You think my ass looks good in these pants,” Stiles points out, “I think the creepy john in a leather jacket thing actually works for you. Call me.”

Derek’s com sputters to life again. “Hale, where the hell are you?” his sergeant barks. Stiles’ earpiece hums as well, the same faint female voice ringing through.

“Stilinski, quit flirting and get rid of him!”

“Seriously!” Stiles calls as he slams the door shut, “Call me!”

“Turn your earpiece down!” Derek orders, tucking Stiles’ card into the center console and pulling away from the curb.

Three years, two near-death experiences, and one serial killer later, Boyd and Scott have a competition to see who can make more prostitution jokes in their best men speeches.


End file.
